Dear T. Raumschmiere: You are too loud! I really do not mean to sound like a fuddy-duddy, but your amplifiers make the entire building shake. The floors are vibrating, and Biggie Smalls looks rather amorous. Coincidence, perhaps, but I will hold you accountable if my leg is mounted by a frisky pug.
Rock shows in Paris are as common as mullets; that is to say, nobody seems to have much interest in them. I caught one band play while in Paris, but I can't remember their name; they were one of those jerky electro-pop bands that seemed to have garnered its rock identity through studying music magazines. I couldn't decide if they were French and trying to sound English, or English and trying to sound French. The odd thing about Paris is that their rock shows are either nonexistent or very deep underground. I looked for shows in Pariscope but found only electro nights or Pedro the Lion. So instead, for the most part, I just went to Cafe Charbon and listened to the music there.
I took a long walk home tonight, rolling thoughts around my head and rewriting memories, and in my inward grumbling I thought of Born Against—specifically, their split 7" with Screeching Weasel, and how I've always wanted to give it as a biting gift to someone but never had the requisite fury to do so. UNTIL NOW. "Go Fuck Yourself" is hilariously sophomoric stuff from Ben Weasel, but Born Against's dark and dirty take on it has made it a theme of sorts lately. Listening to it makes me feel justifiably angry, and the sheer silliness of the lyrics (I would like to crush your pointed head / You fucking puke / I think you wet the bed) makes me grin. I like Born Against for making me think, but I love them for making me feel awright.
On a non-music note: I'm on the telly again on Wednesday's 11am news, later in the broadcast, channel 7. I'll be discussing lofty matters such as the significance of Tadzieu's wardrobe choices in Death in Venice. Or not.
Rock shows in Paris are as common as mullets; that is to say, nobody seems to have much interest in them. I caught one band play while in Paris, but I can't remember their name; they were one of those jerky electro-pop bands that seemed to have garnered its rock identity through studying music magazines. I couldn't decide if they were French and trying to sound English, or English and trying to sound French. The odd thing about Paris is that their rock shows are either nonexistent or very deep underground. I looked for shows in Pariscope but found only electro nights or Pedro the Lion. So instead, for the most part, I just went to Cafe Charbon and listened to the music there.
I took a long walk home tonight, rolling thoughts around my head and rewriting memories, and in my inward grumbling I thought of Born Against—specifically, their split 7" with Screeching Weasel, and how I've always wanted to give it as a biting gift to someone but never had the requisite fury to do so. UNTIL NOW. "Go Fuck Yourself" is hilariously sophomoric stuff from Ben Weasel, but Born Against's dark and dirty take on it has made it a theme of sorts lately. Listening to it makes me feel justifiably angry, and the sheer silliness of the lyrics (I would like to crush your pointed head / You fucking puke / I think you wet the bed) makes me grin. I like Born Against for making me think, but I love them for making me feel awright.
On a non-music note: I'm on the telly again on Wednesday's 11am news, later in the broadcast, channel 7. I'll be discussing lofty matters such as the significance of Tadzieu's wardrobe choices in Death in Venice. Or not.
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